


The Loneliest Number

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 12:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5785918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag story to "Cold Cash and Hot Water." Richard Bassingame returns to get his revenge on the guys...especially Peter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Loneliest Number

 

First published in  _Just the Four of Us_ (1999)

 

            “Come on, coffee’s on me,” Peter called, waving his three partners and the two policemen with them away from the bus stop. Now that he’d put Charlie Venkman safely on the bus back to Iowa, he wanted nothing more than to shift gears and get everyone’s mind off the fact that his father had nearly destroyed New York City this time with his greed. Never mind that Bassingame had been nearly as much to blame as Charlie for releasing the Hob; it was his dad whose shadow he felt over him so often. His friends would never know how much it meant to him that they didn’t blame him for the trouble his dad caused. The cops, on the other hand, could use distracting.

            There was a coffee shop across the street, and soon the cops had been treated to several cups and departed after friendly good-byes, leaving only the four Ghostbusters in the booth. Any easy silence settled amongst them, although Peter knew his friends were watching him, as they always did when his dad came back into his life, worried about how he was feeling. He grinned lopsidedly at them and spoke up before they had a chance to.

            “So, you think Dad’s gonna make it to Iowa this time?” he asked, deliberately chipper.

            Ray smiled a little at him and Winston’s mouth quirked in sympathy. Of course they didn’t. He didn’t even have to look to know Egon’s expression. He shrugged and quickly went on.

            “Guess it’s just not in him. I suppose I’ll be getting a card from Hawaii next, telling me he was on his way to Iowa and the bus got lost.” Peter hoped he succeeded in keeping the bitterness out of his voice.

            Apparently not to those who knew him so well.

            “I have to admit, I kinda doubt your dad’s going to live ‘a quiet life’ in the country, but I bet he’ll be in touch soon to let you know where he is,” Ray offered immediately, his face full of hope and honest sympathy. Of all of them, he was least able to understand Charlie and his relationship with his son, and yet the youngest Ghostbuster was always the first to offer support.

            Peter felt too tired for optimism. “Yeah, when he wants something,” he muttered.

            Long, thin fingers wrapped around his wrist. “Peter, I may not trust your father, but I don’t believe he ever intends to use you. You’re simply the only person he knows he can always come to and trust.” Egon didn’t usually sound so serious, even when he was spouting off technobabble.

            “Yeah, Pete, and he sure is proud of you. Ray and I got an earful of it yesterday when we were heading out with your dad to stop the big ugly. I bet he tells everyone about you,” Winston grinned at him easily, but his earnest words reminded Peter how none of the rest of his friends could say that about their own fathers, dead or living.

            Solid, bracing warmth spread through his insides at his friends’ words. No, not even for what they said, but rather for the friendship and concern that had prompted their reassurance. None of it was anything they hadn’t already told him many times before, but it always felt good to hear.

            Peter patted the hand on his arm and looked up to grin at all three of them. “Yeah, I know it. I am pretty lucky.” They knew exactly what he was talking about. His grin suddenly widened. “Besides, who wouldn’t be proud to have a son like me?”

            Three groans answered him in unison. “That does it,” Winston pulled himself up. “I’m going home and take a nap. I don’t think I’ve slept a full night since before Alaska, and I don’t have the strength to deal with your ego today.” Ray slid out to join him, followed by Egon. The blond turned to look at Peter, who remained seated, still nursing his coffee.

            “Are you coming, Peter?”

            Peter shook his head. “Uh-uh. I havta go talk to the mayor and take care of some of the mess from Hob’s little tour of the city. I’ll catch up with you guys at home later.”

            Serious blue eyes studied him. Egon moved a little closer and in an undertone meant only for his ears, asked, “Are you all right?”

            Peter smiled. “I’m okay, just tired. But this stuff can’t wait. Lenny almost took my head off over the phone before; if I don’t go talk to him, they’re gonna ban Dad from the city.”

            Egon’s eyes didn’t miss much and it was apparent that he didn’t fully believe Peter, but he nodded, content to leave it for now. “If you don’t come home by dinnertime, you know we will have to feed your dinner to Slimer,” he said solemnly.

            That provoked a laugh from the psychologist. Satisfied, Egon joined Ray and Winston at the door and, with a final glance back, left.

            Peter’s grin faded almost as quickly. They were surely the best buddies a guy could ever ask for, there was no doubt of that, and he felt contentment lapping at his soul at the thought. But he had only told Egon the half of it. Lenny was ready to sue the four of them and Charlie for damages to the city, and the whole thing could be a huge amount of bad press, not to mention a hefty amount of money, if Peter didn’t cool the mayor off first. It was normally the kind of smooth talking he thrived on, but the whole rush since they’d left for Alaska had left him drained and dragging, and it made everything seem ten times as hard.

            With a sigh, Peter got up and finished off the coffee, tossing the cup in the trash and moving up to the register to pay the bill as he’d promised.

            “That’s okay, Dr. Venkman, Mr. Zeddemore took care of it already,” the fresh-faced girl at the register told him.

            Peter stared at her in surprise, less taken aback at her knowing their names--they were famous, after all--as by what she had said. Winston must have realized how much the fine for his dad had cleaned Peter out and taken care of the bill while he’d been talking to Egon. A smile touched Peter’s lips. Figured. He thanked the girl in his most charming voice and left the shop, suddenly not dragging so much anymore.

 

            Ecto had pulled into the firehouse and the doors had been shut behind it for some minutes before a figure in the shadows across the way ventured to step out into the light. Beady, dark eyes gleamed as they appraised the building. It was not unfamiliar to him; he’d been inside it only the day before, but he looked at it with new interest now, mentally calculating, considering. That the Ghostbusters had come in minus Peter Venkman was a bonus he hadn’t counted on, and opportunity was at hand. And Richard Bassingame was not one to pass up an opportunity.

            He slipped across the street, cautiously watching the windows as he went to make sure he wasn’t observed from the firehouse. If they knew he was there, it would ruin everything, and his idea was too brilliant to spoil now.

            There was no sign of life, though, and he slipped over the fence into the empty lot next to the firehall with a sigh of relief. That had been the hard part; the rest would be easy. Hidden in the shadow of the fence, he carefully drew out the old book that had been tucked into his cloak. Some thought his cloak was all for show and theatrics, and in part it was, but it also served to keep some of his secrets. The book, one of the prizes of his collection, was one now, so old that its name had long worn off the spine. But he knew exactly what it was, just as he knew precisely what he sought in it now. It was the very thing he’d first considered as he’d struggled to rid himself of the troublesome _domoviet_ those fools had saddled him with, the same thing he’d decided on as he’d sat in humiliation in the firehall, ignored and shunned while they discussed how he’d be forced to help them restrain the Hob.

            They’d thought he’d been cowed into cooperation, but they’d had no idea that he’d been thinking of his revenge. On all of them, really, but especially on Peter Venkman. Thanks to the psychologist and his father, Bassingame would never be able to show his face in town again. There would be retribution for that, and he couldn’t think of a better one than turning all of Venkman’s friends against him and dividing their precious team. He’d show that upstart what it was like to be an outcast!

            Finding the page he wanted, he skimmed the words, then closed his eyes as he breathed deeply and collected all his thoughts and belief. When it was time, he opened his eyes and read the words out loud, emphasizing each one so that there would be no confusion.

            There was no flash of lightening or gust of wind to herald his success when he finished, and for a minute, Bassingame gazed about uncertainly. How would he know if it had worked or not? It had been a very tricky spell, all the more so for encompassing all the dwellers of the building and focusing the effect on one who was absent.

            A tense minute passed, then faint voices suddenly drifted through the closed window high above his head. He crouched, ready to run, then as he realized they weren’t coming closer, he strained to listen. The voices were angry, and he could make out Spengler’s distinctive bass as well as other voices, apparently arguing. And then he caught the name they were furiously arguing about.

            With a satisfied smile, Richard Bassingame crept back over the fence and disappeared up the street into the lengthening shadows of twilight.

 

            In his lab, Egon sat in front of the computer and put in his notes from the day. Despite the havoc that the Hob had caused and the strain on Peter from having to deal with his father’s troublemaking again, the whole experience had been fascinating and one that Egon looked forward to studying further. The Hob had always been merely a myth, a being so powerful that it was nearly inconceivable, and the chance to have gotten all these readings was a dream....

            Slimer, floating in a half doze across the room, suddenly gave a squawk and shot up through the ceiling. Egon stared after him in startlement for a moment, then shrugged. Knowing Slimer, he’d probably heard an ice cream truck. Spengler bent down again over his work.

            A moment passed.

            A chill unexpectedly went through the physicist and Egon looked up, puzzled. Had he left the window open? No, a quick glance told him. Something was making him uneasy, but perhaps it was still reaction catching up to him. After all, the Hob had been a dangerous enemy, one that could have easily destroyed them all, and a few shivers of reaction after such a close call were only natural. Of course, they wouldn’t have had such a close call if not for Peter dragging them into yet another situation caused by his father. Peter’s blindspot for his father would get them all killed someday, if his own schemes didn’t do it first...

            Egon blinked. Where had that idea come from? Peter was not responsible for his father, and the psychologist had saved their lives before many times over...

            ...sometimes after putting them in danger in the first place. His avarice that led them into that idiotic show about Al Capone’s tomb, his forgetfulness about the old jumpsuits that came to life that had nearly destroyed them, then his dragging them all off into the New Jersey parallelogram to save his good-for-nothing father had been a trip they’d nearly not come back from...

            ..but it wasn’t really his fault...

            ...which would have done them precious little good if they’d wound up dead. Peter Venkman was a liability to the team.

            Loud voices coming up the stairs drew his attention, and Egon got up from the computer and moved to the door in time to see Winston storm up the spiral stairs, Ray at his heels.

            “It was idiotic, Ray, and you know it,” the black man was arguing.   “Peter never does anything around here but sleep in and go on dates. We’re just pulling his weight...when he’s not trying to get us killed!”

            “I know,” Ray agreed gloomily. “It’s dangerous having him around. But I don’t know what we--”

            “Egon, we’ve gotta do something about Peter,” Winston interrupted as he caught sight of the blond. “His crazy dad almost finished us off today. If Pete ever paid attention to anything around here, he’d see it, except he’s usually off following a dollar sign or a nice pair of legs. Never did do his share around here--” he trailed off, his eyes doubtful for a moment. Then, as if finding his train of thought again, he shrugged and opened his mouth to continue. Ray jumped in instead.

            “I know he doesn’t mean it, but maybe somebody’ll get hurt next time, or even die.   Egon, I don’t think we can have someone on the team like that. I think it’d be better if we thought about getting somebody to replace him.” Ray’s face was flushed in apparent passion over the idea, but his eyes were distressed.

            Egon could feel that same panic in himself. Something wasn’t right, he could feel it, and yet Winston and Ray were correct, Peter was a weakness for the Ghostbusters and not a person to have faith in. With all his slick talk, maybe they’d not seen the truth before, but it was obvious now. How could any man be trusted who so unflinchingly threw his partners into harm’s way in order to save a _conman_? Anger stirred in him at the thought, and not wanting to consider its source, he directed it at the object of his thoughts.

            “What he did was unconscionable,” Egon agreed sharply. “I don’t know why we ever made him a part of the team. When he gets back we will have to tell him he is no longer welcome here.”

            The other two chorused in agreement, their voices still strident with emotion none of them could place. And if there was desperation in their eyes and a tiny voice of horrified protest deep in their minds, the hate and anger drowned it out.

 

            Peter hardly found the energy to muster to climb out of the cab. The visit to the mayor’s office was worse than he’d feared, and it had taken his every skill plus calling in a few chips to avoid a disaster. The guys probably never appreciated how much PR was needed for a job that regularly seemed to include trashing whole city blocks. Peter hadn’t even been able to make himself go talk to Con-Ed or any of the other parties involved to try to make amends, he’d just been too exhausted. The drag from before had turned into utter exhaustion and he ached all over. Nor could he seem to get warm enough despite the mild September weather. Maybe he’d picked up something in all that ice and cold in Alaska. Whatever it was, the psychologist couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful than a cup of something warm and then climbing into his bed. He could probably even get sympathy at least from Ray and have some cocoa delivered up to the bedroom. The idea made him smile tiredly as he struggled with the door and let himself in.

            The bottom floor looked deserted. Janine, in deference to her help in subduing the Hob, had been given the day off. Of Winston there was no sign, and Ray and Egon were most likely playing up in the lab. Swallowing his disappointment, Peter trudged toward the stairs. The thought of climbing honestly dismayed him; he couldn’t remember feeling this wrung out and lousy before, even after the 48-hour Fourth of July party he’d taken Mindy to...and come home with Jenny from.

            Even that memory failed to cheer him, though, and he gathered himself to wearily climb the stairs, forcing leaden feet up. Maybe he’d just curl up on the sofa for a nap first. It seemed too much to contemplate climbing another floor to the bedroom.

            Gratefully, he rounded the top of the staircase, burrowing into his jacket as he made his way into the living room. Impossibly, it seemed colder inside than out.

            His buddies were all there, he saw almost at once with a sigh of relief. Being home with his friends made him feel better already. “Hey, guys. It wasn’t easy, but I think Lenny’s gonna let us off the hook. ‘Course, the next few busts we do for the city are gonna be on us, but--”

            “Thanks to your dad, Pete,” Winston cut in coldly from the sofa where he looked up from the magazine he’d been reading. “You make us chase him all the way to Alaska, then use us to save his hide again, risk our lives to do it, and all the thanks we get is the city’s mad at us? Great deal, Pete,” he added sourly.

            Peter had frozen at the first words and now stood staring at him, his aches forgotten as he tried to digest what Winston had said. Surely he’d heard wrong. “Wh-what--” he stammered.

            Ray picked it up from next to Winston. “He uses you, then throws you away each time, Peter, and you always fall for it. That’s bad enough, but then you act just like him, always in some scam to get rich or to win over a girl. Gosh, Peter, can’t you control yourself at all? I guess it doesn’t matter that we could get hurt, as long as you get what you want.” His eyes blazed with fury completely out of place on Ray Stantz’s boyish face.

            The ground was slipping out from under Peter’s feet. Where had this come from? He couldn’t believe it had been there all long.... Or could he have been so wrong about the one thing he would’ve staked his life on? He tried a defense once more, to find out what was going on, how he could be hearing what he’d just heard. “But--” he weakly began, his eyes automatically seeking out the truest constant in his life.

            But he found no refuge in Egon Spengler’s face. “I don’t understand why we didn’t see it before, but your irresponsible and negligent behavior has jeopardized the team more than once,” the physicist said flatly as he stood up from the easy chair. “You have no appreciation for science, your immaturity and shallowness are constant obstacles to any significant achievements, and we have put up with you far too long. It is all our belief that it would be better if you left.”

            _Left?_ His home, his _family?_ If the earth had suddenly turned upside down, it could not have more thoroughly destroyed Peter’s foundation. “Guys...” he choked out, but he didn’t know what to say. Their faces, set and angry, left him without even a seed of hope, and their eyes... Never before had Peter realized how much he thrived on the affection and care for him that always lingered in his friends eyes, even when he was at his most unlovable. It was a constant reassurance--one he depended on--that he was loved. Now, the brown eyes and blue were all the same, all burning and resentful and opaque. There was nothing left in them for him to draw on.

            A desperate idea came to mind, and he momentarily forgot his weariness as he turned and dashed out of the room and up the stairs as fast as he could, skidding into Egon’s lab when he reached the top. A moment’s search revealed what he sought, and he ran back downstairs with it, turning on the PKE meter as he did and aiming it toward the three waiting in the living room. As unpleasant and terrifying a thing as possession was, he earnestly hoped that it would be the answer. There was no way his three buddies would ever say such things on their own....

            No response. The meter didn’t even stir, registering not even the faintest trace of a ghost.

            “So _now_ you’re working?” Winston said sarcastically, rising from the couch.

            “Honestly, Peter, do you really think we have to be under supernatural influence in order to have finally seen you as you are?” Egon’s scornful voice came.      

            Biting his lip, Peter fiddled with the controls for a moment. Resetting the meter was not something he usually did, but at that moment there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t or couldn’t do to try to put together the pieces that his life was breaking into. The guys sure looked like the guys, but maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were facsimiles, even if he had no clue how that would be done, but if there was a chance, he had to try it. Resetting it for Egon’s biorhythms, he pointed it at his friend, his best and first real friend.

            Normal. Well, almost normal. There was a faint trace of something unusual, but that made sense; it hadn’t been long since they battled the powerful Hob, using magic, no less, and traces of that were bound to remain on all of them for a while. But the person in front of him was unquestionably Egon. The bedrock in his life that had just inexplicably crumbled away.

            The meter suddenly was very heavy and he let it fall, not caring that Ray jumped forward with a cry of protest to catch it. Stantz’s eyes met his as the engineer straightened, and they were full of reproof. “If you’re going to start breaking things,” he chided, “maybe you should leave now.”

            Leave now. He’d have fought leaving the guys behind with every fiber of his being before, even with his dying breath. No one had the right to separate them, no one. Except...them.

            His mouth moved for a moment before he realized it wasn’t making any noise. He had to try, one last time. “Ray, I don’t...don’t get it. Winston.... What did I...” He turned toward the physicist. “Please, Egon, don’t make me go,” he begged. At that moment, he would have offered his soul for it to all be taken back.

            Egon shook his head. “It won’t work, Venkman. We don’t want you here anymore.”

            His spirit turned to dust and was swept away by those words. He couldn’t fight this, not his friends. His weariness returned like a safe dropped on him, until he nearly collapsed where he stood under the weight. _We don’t want you here anymore._

            It was over.

            He couldn’t bear to look at them, at the people he thought had loved him, whom he had loved for so many years, and, God help him, whom he even now would’ve given his life for without a second thought. If he saw the hate in their eyes one more time, he’d never find the strength to leave.

            But leave he did. It didn’t occur to him to pack or to take any of his things with him. He had to leave. One foot in front of the other, around and down the stairs, across the empty garage, to the door, leaving behind that chilled, friendless silence in his wake. Friendless, exactly what he was. Friendless, jobless, homeless. His beliefs and identity were also gone--what was he without his job or his family? Nothing. Peter paused at the door, straining no longer to hear a reprieve, a correction that it was all a mistake, merely wanting to stretch the last minute a little bit longer, before he left it all behind.

            There was nothing to leave. Shutting his eyes, he opened the door and walked out, letting the darkness swallow him up.

 

            Janine’s first sight as she walked in the door was of Winston half hidden under Ecto’s hood, working hard on something. He stuck his head out to see who’d come in, and gave her a welcoming smile.

            “Hi, Janine.”

            “Hi, Winston,” she smiled back at him. Ray charmed her with his childlike attitude, Egon had her heart, and Peter...well, she thought wryly, perhaps the less said about Peter, the better. But Winston reminded her of her father, protective and wise. She’d found herself more than once going to Winston for advice, and never begrudged him a sincere smile.

            There was a loud hum coming from above, the noise hardly slipping by her subconscious. “Egon and Ray at it upstairs?” she asked conversationally as she got to her desk and shed her coat and purse.

            “Mm-hmm,” Winston murmured from back under the hood. “Something about making a stronger force field, based on the readings they got from the Hob.”

            The mention of the creature made Janine’s nose crinkle. “Great,” she groaned, stowing her purse under her desk and hanging up her coat next to the filing cabinets, glancing over them as she did. Peter’s office, not surprisingly, was empty. “And Dr. V’s sleeping in again, huh?” she added, letting the sarcasm leech into her voice.

            Winston’s head shot up, his face suddenly tight. “Venkman’s not here anymore,” he said curtly.

            Janine’s attention caught instantly on his expression, but then his words registered and the mail slid out of her hands. “Anymore?” she repeated uncertainly.

            Winston shook his head and went back under the hood. “He’s gone.” He still spoke as if the words tasted bad. “And he’s not coming back.”

            Janine could feel her jaw drop. What on earth was going on here? Her eyes narrowed as she stood up. “What do you mean, he’s not coming back? What happened?”

            The venom in his voice was the last thing she would’ve expected from equable Winston. “We told him to leave. Dragging us into trouble with his dad was the last straw. He never does anything useful around here and he just causes trouble.”

            This was crazy. She’d only been gone for one day and suddenly everyone had lost their minds. Either that or it was some elaborate joke. Janine considered that possibility for a moment, of Peter setting her up just to hear her defend him, but she dismissed it almost as quickly. Peter’s jokes could be crude, dirty, and sneaky, but they were never mean. So that only left...what?

            Winston had said “we.” She had to see for herself. Surely sweet-natured Ray, who never hurt anyone, couldn’t have turned on Peter. Or Egon on his best friend.... Without another word to Winston, she turned and dashed up the stairs.

            On the third floor, she paused a moment to look into the bedrooms. Three beds stood neatly made--nothing unusual there--but the fourth, Peter’s, was also made but untouched, looking as though it hadn’t been slept in. Good God, had Winston really been telling the truth?

            Janine spun around and marched into the lab, ignoring the now-rumbling hum and the two scientists who looked completely engrossed. Striding up to stand behind them both, she stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Okay, what’s going on here?” she demanded suspiciously.

            Egon ignored the interruption as he often did when he was caught up in something, but Ray glanced up at her with a grin. “Oh, hi, Janine. We didn’t hear you come in. What was that you said?”

            His obvious friendliness almost dispersed her anger; Ray certainly didn’t _look_ like he’d broken up with one of his oldest friends. She frowned at him. “Winston said Peter’s gone. What’s going on?”

            At the mention of Venkman’s name, Egon also looked up, turning off the humming machine as he did. “Hello, Janine. Yes, we fired Peter last night. It just wasn’t working out. He’s completely unprofessional, not the least bit interested in--”

            “You _fired_ him?!” she repeated incredulously. They really had gone insane. “You can’t fire him. He’s one of the founding partners!”

            “We didn’t want to do it, Janine,” Ray argued quickly. “But he’s dangerous. I’m sure he means well, but he’s always getting into trouble, and we can’t have that around here.”

            Janine pressed her lips together as she studied the two men in front of her. Egon had spoken calmly enough, but his eyes were cloudy, troubled. And Ray, despite his attempt to be earnest, had a hint of doubt in his voice as if he wasn’t completely sure of what he was saying, either. For that matter, even Winston had sounded just a little too practiced. She didn’t know what was going on, but when it came down to it, she cared for Peter Venkman as for a pesky older brother, and no one was going to treat him like this, not even his three best friends.

            Without another thought, she grabbed hold of Egon’s arm with one hand and Ray’s with the other. “You guys are coming with me,” she said shortly, and pulled them along after her.   They hesitated, surprised, but came.

            She tugged them along until they reached the garage floor, where Winston was just wiping his hands and coming up after her. There, she released both the scientists, giving them a push until they stood next to Winston and she could face all three of them at once.

            “Okay,” she crossed her arms, “let me get this straight. Two days ago, you four were best friends. You saved New York from the Hob, and you all were worried about Peter dealing with his dad, and don’t deny it because I saw you were. And now, all of the sudden, you want him to leave?” She couldn’t even think about how Peter had felt at hearing that. There wasn’t a worse punishment she could imagine for him, and the thought of where he could be now or what was left of him made her sick.

            The looks of puzzlement and wariness had disappeared at her words, replaced by open anger, and all three men began hotly protesting.

            “Janine, you don’t understand--”

            “Peter was becoming a liability--”

            “Gosh, Janine, it wasn’t like we--”

            “QUIET!” she screeched. They shut up. She stood and glared at them. “Do you guys realize what you _sound_ like? Two days ago you’d have taken a thrower to anybody who talked about Peter that way, and if you thought about it, you’d remember that. I’m the first to admit he can be pretty impossible sometimes, and there were days I would have loved to kick him out myself. But not really for good. He’s my friend. One of your best friends. Can’t you _remember_?”

            They just began to argue again, the same words as before. They weren’t listening to her, she thought furiously. Well, they hadn’t seen the fury of Melnitz yet. The last of her patience gave way and Janine opened her mouth to let them have it.

            But abruptly she saw it. It should’ve been obvious; three intelligent men, two of them scientists, yet there was no reason in their arguments, nothing to back up their words, wholly unnatural for all three of them. Not natural. Maybe even...supernatural.

            “Egon!” she suddenly exploded, startling them into silence once more. “Okay, think scientifically, Egon. Peter’s saved your lives, all of your lives, more times than you can count, right? Remember who got you out of Nexa? And whose psychological know-how talked Jeremy Whittington out of ending the world? You _need_ psychology to busts ghosts, and that’s Peter’s job. You always said he was great at it. Think, Egon. You’ve called him your oldest friend before. Why would you act like this now? Is that logical?”

            Egon was frowning, deep in thought. “No,” he murmured. “But--”

            She ignored him, letting him ponder that as she turned to Stantz. “Ray, you’d find something to like about Ivan the Terrible. Why would you be so mean to one of your best friends? Peter loves you like a kid brother, and I’ve seen him put his life on the line to protect you. Two days ago you felt the same way. Could Peter have done _anything_ so bad in the last two days that would change your mind?”

            Ray’s face had fallen at the words, and he now looked chastened and uncertain. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

            “And you, Winston,” Janine turned remorselessly to the third man. “You’re the fairest guy I know. Does this feel right to you, throwing Peter out of his home and job without warning like this? You call yourselves family; doesn’t that mean putting up with one another no matter what? There wouldn’t even _be_ Ghostbusters without Peter!”

            Winston shifted uncomfortably. “But if he’s dangerous--”

            Janine made a disgusted sound. “Dangerous, my foot. More than you that time you forgot to recharge the packs? Or than Ray when he gets all excited and jumps in without looking, or than Egon when he blows up the lab? If Peter gets into trouble more, it’s just because he always charges in first to protect you guys.”

            Silence. Egon finally cleared his throat.

            “You may have a point, Janine. What you’re saying is logical and I cannot find any facts to invalidate your reasoning, and yet I feel a most...irresistible sense of having found fault with Peter.”

“You’re right, Egon,” Winston said thoughtfully. “Even though I know I didn’t always feel like this, it’s almost like I can’t think something nice about Pete. I think of him and I just get...mad.”

            “Does that mean Peter really isn’t like that and something’s just making us think this way?” Ray asked in a small voice.

            Janine unbent a little bit. “What could do that?” she asked cautiously.

            Put like that, Egon and Ray’s natural curiosity was drawn into play. “It couldn’t be an aftereffect of exposure to the Hob, because Peter and Janine are obviously not affected,” Egon began.

            “Besides, exposure shouldn’t be able to have an effect like that,” Ray added.

            “So if you’re saying it’s not accidental, then something or someone did this on purpose,” Winston said slowly.

            “It could be a curse,” Ray said. “Or, more likely, a spell. I’ve heard of hate spells before, although I don’t think it’s been used like this before, with a limited group of subjects under a spell that’s focused on one person.” His enthusiasm began to pick up again at the challenge. “I think I know the book I read a spell like that in; I’ll see if I can dig it up and find out more about it.” With a quick, hesitant glance at Janine for permission, he hurried past her and up the stairs.

            “Oh, man” breathed Winston, “I hate thinking somebody messed with our minds like that.”

            “What about Peter?” Janine challenged. “Can you imagine what he’s thinking?”

            Egon said solemnly, “We’d best not try, Janine, at least not until we can counteract the spell. It’s very hard for any of us to think of Peter now in any but the least pleasant of terms. If we truly are influenced, I think it might be wise if you remain close by and keep us objective. I’m not sure any of us can trust our reactions right now.”

            The idea of not being in control of his responses disturbed him profoundly, she could tell, and Janine finally let herself relax a little more. Okay, the problem wasn’t solved yet and Peter wasn’t back, nor could she be easy until he was, but at least they were all agreed that there _was_ a problem, and they’d find a solution for it. And as for Peter.... She felt her heart constrict in sympathy. She didn’t even want to think about what pain he had to be in. All she could do for him now was make sure that they got him back as quickly as possible. Frowning at that thought, she grabbed the phone book before she headed up the stairs after Egon and Winston.

 

            Night in New York could be predatory. There were no stars visible in the sky from the city, even in the places that were blacked out and removed. These were the places where the City that Never Slept was a nightmare, where no one with any instinct of self-preservation remained after dark, and it was always dark. The only ones who stayed and survived were the strongest and the ones who had nothing to lose.

            One of the latter stumbled down the lightless street, oblivious to his location or potential danger. The air of hopeless misery that trailed after him unconsciously protected him, though; a person who was worthless to himself was little threat or lure to others. And so he was left alone on the island that his world had become.

            The numbness was what kept him going. Inside, his heart was raw and aching, but he’d wrapped it in the emotional shock because there was no other way he could keep himself together. There had been awful pain before, but he’d always had someone to share it with and to lighten the load. Now, there was only himself, hollowed out, to support the devastation. And he couldn’t. He couldn’t even grasp it. Something deep inside was broken, and he couldn’t fix it alone. What could you rebuild on when the foundation of your beliefs was gone? At least if he kept putting one foot in front of the other, it gave him something to do besides _feel._

            Shock only masked a body’s needs so long, though. It had overcome his weariness and chills at first even though he was visibly shaking now, but the ground was swaying more and more under his feet and his legs were starting to refuse to work right. And finally, there was no energy left to summon.

            And so Peter Venkman had found himself weaving in front of a sign that blinked “Motel - Vacancy” in bright orange letters at him. Without thinking about it, he shuffled inside.

            The lobby wasn’t much lighter than the street except for the small desk lamp that glowed on the table at the other end of the room. A middle-aged man in glasses and a frayed shirt looked up warily as the door opened, studying Peter as he came in. After a moment, he nodded in an almost friendly way.

            “You need a room?”

            Peter pulled the coat tighter around him, wanting nothing more than to give in and fold where he stood. But some almost-dead stubbornness moved him ahead until he reached the table and leaned heavily against it. Oblivious to the man’s curious stare, he automatically dug out some money and dropped it on the counter.

            The man eyed it, then him once more. “That’ll pay for at least two nights, Mister,” he said. “But you look like you could use a hospital, not a hole in the wall like this. Can I getcha some help?”  
            Help? Peter let his eyes shut and shook his head. Nothing would help him now.

            “Well, all right, your business,” the man shrugged reluctantly. He pulled a dog-eared book from a corner of the desk over in front of Peter.   “You wanna sign the register, or tell me your name so I can sign ya in?”

            “Venkman.” It came out as a whisper.

            The man frowned at him for a long moment, but then found a pen and wrote it carefully in the book. Finishing that, he put it aside and turned and pulled a key from the cupboard behind the desk. He held it out, but when Peter didn’t move to take it right away, the man frowned again and limped around the table to take Peter’s arm. “I’ll take you to your room myself, Mister. I gave you the closest one, just around the corner,” he said slowly.

            Peter didn’t protest, letting himself be led the few steps to a battered door. The man unlocked it one-handed with the key, then helped Venkman inside, over to the bed. There, he watched as Peter sank down on it, sitting motionless except for the constant shivering.

            The man studied him critically again. “Hey, you sure there isn’t anybody I can call for you, Mr. Venkman?”

            The brown head shook slowly. “Nobody,” was the bleak answer.

            Shrugging, the man limped back to the door. “I’m gonna put your key here by the door,” he said, laying it on the scarred dresser a few feet away from the bed. “I’d lock the door if I were you; we got some real lowlifes around here.” He hovered hesitantly a moment, then raised a hand. “Well, good-night.” He almost missed the hoarse whisper just as he went out.

            “Thank you.”

            The man paused, then quietly shut the door behind him.

            The walls were thin and there were sounds of sirens from the street and voices arguing in other rooms and, nearby, a TV blaring. None of it reached Peter. He felt like throwing things, screaming, something, but he didn’t even have the energy to cry. Instead, he closed his eyes in total exhaustion and curled up on the bed, tugging the musty blanket around him, still shuddering from the cold. There wasn’t any warmth left in him, not anywhere, even though he felt like he was scalded inside. But Peter Venkman no longer cared about anything. Wholly depleted in mind and body, he let himself flow away into the relief of oblivion.

 

            Despite Ray’s optimism, it was nearly midday before he found the spell he’d been been searching for, only to realize that it wasn’t what he needed. His face fell for a moment, then he threw himself back into the search with customary exuberance, breaking away only occasionally to check something Winston found. The older Ghostbuster had joined him at the books--at least the ones in English--to help with the search. Which left Egon with the scientific approach, analyzing readings and possible causes. It hadn’t taken him long to discover a slight aberration in their biorhythms, and further study showed it wasn’t an aftereffect of their brush with the Hob. Something was off, but it was something the meter wasn’t designed to measure and so the readings were faint and vague. After consultation with Ray, Egon was already hard at work on a more precise method of detection and measurement.

            Janine watched all of them carefully as she worked, but it seemed like she had no more cause to worry. Once the three had found out they’d been manipulated, curiosity and anger had taken over. Peter alone would have been cause enough before to solve the problem, she thought with a sigh, but that would come soon, too, she was sure of it. She just hoped Peter would hang on until then.

            In the meantime, it was her job to find him. The hospitals and morgue had turned up negative, for which she was mostly grateful, as had every friend and acquaintance of the psychologist’s that she could think of, for which she was not. Still, it wasn’t unlike Peter to go off and suffer in private; despite his gift for helping people, it had always been hard for him to allow others to help him. That left her with the daunting task of checking the hundreds, if not thousands, of motels and hotels in the city. Janine couldn’t imagine that Venkman would leave New York. The Peter she knew wouldn’t have been thinking very rationally after such a blow and had probably just found some place to curl up and lick his wounds. But also knowing just how close the four men were, it was hard to imagine him getting very far. With no one else seeming to miss him in the slightest, Janine ached all the more for her hurting friend.  

            The checking was slow going, hampered further by her uncertainty that he’d have registered under his own name. Janine carefully made her way through every place she knew of close to the firehall, then went on alphabetically from there. She was only up to the C’s when Ray gave a cry of triumph.

            “I think I found it!”

            Janine joined the other two as they crowded around him and peered at the page he was reading. It wasn’t in English, that much the secretary knew, but Ray’s finger moved along the lines easily enough as his lips soundlessly read the words. Reaching the bottom, he nodded happily.

            “This has to be it. ‘A spell for changing one loved into the appearance of one hated.’” Ray looked up at Janine. “‘One loved’?” he asked timidly.

            She nodded. “That’s the one. Does it say how you can undo it?”

            “And do you know how it was modified to three subjects with one focal point?” Egon added, also skimming the text.

            “I don’t think that would’ve been hard, Egon,” Ray said. “The curse could’ve just been directed at more than one cursee, or maybe, in our case, the occupants of the building. That would explain why we didn’t know what was happening.”

            “What about undoing it?” Winston echoed Janine.

            “If this is the right spell, it’ll be easy. There’s a counterspell right here after it.”

            Janine stepped back to look him in the face. “If it’s the wrong spell, will using the counterspell do anything?”

            Egon answered that, shaking his head. “If there is no spell to counter, the counterspell is invalid. We would not be running the risk of ‘twice cursing’ ourselves.”

            Janine considered that, then nodded. “Okay, so let’s try it. What do we have to do?”

            “Well,” Ray said, “as long as we’re here, it doesn’t matter who reads the spell, so I can do it. Are you guys ready?” he asked Winston and Egon.

            “Go for it, Ray,” Winston urged as Egon nodded.

            Ray stood up, planting himself facing the other two Ghostbusters while Janine stood to one side to watch, and began to read.

            The unfamiliar words sounded almost musical, rhythmic and fitting even though Janine couldn’t understand them. They rang with power, as though they had a voice of their own, and the secretary couldn’t even recognize Ray’s voice through them. For the first time, she could begin to imagine how powerful the spell had had to be to require such a counter. It had needed that strength to come between the four men.

            Just as suddenly, it was over, and Ray fell quiet. Janine could feel the power dissipate. There was no clap of thunder or any sign of the counterspell’s success, though, and she tried to quell her disappointment as she studied her bosses.

            All three of them blinked as if waking, then profound relief lit their faces, prompting a mirroring smile in Janine. Then the next moment, all the joy melted into horror, and she knew that they’d all at once remembered Peter.

            “Egon!” Ray turned to the blond, his face already crumpling. “We kicked Peter out! How could we do that?”

            “I remember it, but it’s like I knew it was going on and I couldn’t do anything about it,” Winston said slowly. “We couldn’t help it, Ray.”

            Egon’s shoulders had sagged at the same realization. “But Peter won’t know that. All he’ll see is that we blamed him for his father, told him he was worthless and we didn’t care about him, and then threw him out of his home.” His voice and expression were nearly steady but the blue eyes had gone dark and bleak.

            Janine couldn’t remember seeing him that upset before, and that hit her nearly as hard as her worry for Peter. But then his words sank in and she blurted, “Oh, Egon, you guys told him _that?”_

            Egon bit his lip and turned away.

            Janine winced. “Well, it’s not like you had any control over it,” she quickly went on. “Peter will understand that if you explain it to him and give him a little time. But when I get my hands on whoever did this, they’re gonna wish they never crossed the Ghostbusters!”

            “You got that right,” Winston vowed.

            Egon was still turned away and Janine could only imagine what he was thinking. That didn’t change the fact that Peter had been badly hurt. Even she knew it wouldn’t be so easy, getting through to their friend and making it all right again, but Janine also knew that what that held the four of them together had survived terrible tests before. If it didn’t survive this mess, nothing would.

            She sidled up to the physicist and tentatively put a hand on his arm. “Egon, we’re gonna find him, and then we’re gonna make him listen. He’ll have to know it wasn’t really you guys. I bet he’s trying to tell himself that already.”       

            The touch wasn’t refused but it didn’t comfort, either, she could see that. Egon drew himself together, giving her a grateful look, then went to talk to Ray, who was hunched over miserably. Supporting one another was always what helped them most of all, but Peter was the one they really needed to be there for, and Janine knew that things would only start to be mend again when he was back and okay. The anguish in the physicist’s blue eyes as he’d glanced at her acknowledged as much.

            Janine sighed to herself as she went back to the phone. She’d give them a moment, then catch them up on what little progress she’d made. In the meantime, it occurred to her, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to check the machine downstairs. She’d been using the lab phone’s private line, but if anyone had called about Peter, they would’ve used the main line.

            “I’ll be right back, I’m gonna check the messages,” she called over her shoulder, and heard Winston acknowledge her. Thank God for him, she thought again. Ray tended to get lost in his emotion, and Egon kept himself together so firmly, he nearly cracked from the strain. When Peter wasn’t there to loosen everyone up, Winston was usually the one who kept them focused and functioning.

            The messages were mostly routine calls and inquiries, up to the last one, which the machine informed her had come in only a few minutes before.

            “Hello, uh, Ghostbusters? My name is Ed Kerlins--I own the Horseshoe Motel. A fella checked in late last night by the name of Venkman. Seems to me one of you all is a Venkman, and he’s kinda familiar, like maybe I saw him on TV. Anyway, he looked sorta sick to me last night, but he didn’t want me to call anybody for him. And today he’s not even answering his door. I, uh, well, I guess I just wanted t’know if you were missing one of yours, ‘though that poor guy looks like he hasn’t got anybody. If you wanna give me a call back, my number’s 555--”

            Janine scribbled it down, holding her breath. Sick? Nobody mentioned anything about Peter being sick. Could he have gotten hurt? When the message ended, she slammed her hand on the alarm bell.

            The guys were down the pole in seconds, crowding around at her desk tensely. There was no question that the news was about Peter; it wouldn’t have occurred to any of them to go on a call now.

            “Was Peter sick when he left here?” Janine burst out as soon as they reached her.

            Ray went even paler. “Why? Did the hospital--”

            The secretary bit her tongue a second time. “Oh, gosh, Ray, no, but a motel owner called. He said somebody named Venkman checked in last night, but he seemed sick and hasn’t come out of his room since. The guy thought maybe it was Peter.”

            Egon answered. “Peter did seem unusually tired yesterday at the café. I thought then that is was only the result of the trouble with his father, but perhaps he was becoming ill. He certainly had ample opportunity to pick something up in Alaska. I seem to recall last night he did look rather flushed and unwell before...” he trailed off.

            Janine cursed anew whoever had done this. The memories were probably a little fuzzy, but the three men seemed to remember their behavior well enough, and they undoubtedly would never forget it.

            Winston was frowning. “Pete checked in under his own name?”

            “He was probably feeling too bad to think about his image,” Ray ventured.

            “And he has little cause to think anyone is looking for him,” Egon added bitterly.

            “Well, the sooner we get there,” Winston declared, “the sooner we can change his mind. You got an address, Janine?”

           

            Five minutes later, the three of them were on their way. The late afternoon rush hour made the already too-long trip nearly interminable. As they finally pulled up at the address Janine had provided, Winston barely had a chance to park the car before his two passengers bolted out the door. He was only a few steps behind.

            Egon, in the lead, abruptly halted at the front desk. “I’m looking for Peter Venkman.”

            The man behind the counter looked up at them quizzically. “You the Ghostbusters?”

            “Yes. Please, it’s very important.”

            Kerlins’s rough face softened as he studied them. Nodding to himself, he pulled out a large circle of keys from the desk and turned to limp out from around the table, heading toward a nearby hallway with the others close behind. “I was hoping he was one of y’all. Sure looks like he could use a friend right now. Haven’t often seen somebody that miserable, not even in this part of town, and I think he’s sick.” Leading the way, the innkeeper couldn’t see the effect his words had on the three men following him.

            Reaching the first door in the hallway, he stopped at it and knocked. “Mr. Venkman?”

            No response.

            Giving the Ghostbusters a glance, he tried the doorknob, pulling his hand back in surprise when it turned easily. “Dagnabbit, I told him t’lock the door,” he muttered. Kerlins turned back and stepped out of the way. “Well, fellas, guess you can take it from here. Just let me know if ya need anything.”

            Ray had glanced worriedly at Egon when the door had proved unlocked, recognizing it as another sign of Peter’s apathy about self-protection. The physicist quickly reached forward and opened the door, leading the way in. Winston brought up the rear, pausing to quietly thank the motel owner but not staying to watch him shuffle off. Then he crowded in at once after the other two into the tiny room.

            The barrenness of the room registered first, devoid of any color or sign of occupancy. The equally sterile tiny bathroom was visible through a doorway across from them. The bed against the wall on their left had taken a moment longer to notice, as had the figure curled up in it, but just as Winston entered, Ray gave a glad cry of “Peter!” and lunged toward it.

            By then, Winston had registered the atmosphere of illness and quickly put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder to restrain him. “Easy, Ray.”

            “But--” the younger man began to protest as he glanced back, breaking off when he saw his friends’ expressions. Egon was frowning as he moved quietly to the edge of the bed and crouched next to it. Ray and Winston watched as he drew the covers back from the bundled figure, revealing a flushed, drawn face half-buried in the pillow. At the loss of warmth, a hand appeared to fumble for the covers and weakly try to draw them close again.

            “Oh, Peter,” Ray breathed in horror, his whole body going tense under the hand that remained on his shoulder. Peter looked much worse than any of them had imagined, ill and miserable but, even worse, so...alone. “Egon--”

            Even Egon had lost his stoicism at the sight and his face was pinched as he reached forward and took the shaking hand. “Peter,” he said gently, “it’s Egon. Can you hear me?”

            Movement, even the labored breathing Winston just realized he’d been hearing since they’d come into the room, stopped for a moment at those words. Then another tremor went through Peter and he pulled his hand away. “No,” he mumbled. “Leave me ‘lone.” It sounded more desperate, scared, than angry.

            Egon’s back went straighter, proof of his distress to those who knew him. With uncustomary tentativeness, he brushed the dark hair back and felt Peter’s forehead. At the touch, Peter’s face grew distressed and he tried to turn away from it and bury himself in the pillow. “No,” he protested again. “Don’t. Not ‘gain.”

            “He’s feverish,” Egon looked up at the other two who watched anxiously from the end of the bed. “I would say at least 103 degrees. Presumably the cold we thought he was coming down with earlier is really influenza.”

            “Peter has the flu?” Ray echoed. “Then he’ll be okay, Egon, won’t he?”

            “He should be fine, provided he receives proper attention.” Egon had jerked his hand away at the earlier rejection and now it hovered helplessly, wanting to relieve his friend’s misery and yet knowing he would only cause more distress. Instead, the blond busied himself pulling the blanket back up and tucking it around Peter, who curled up as deeply into it as he could and mumbled something unintelligible. Egon winced. “I don’t think he’s very aware of his situation right now although he seems to know we’re here.” The last was said almost painfully and Winston and Ray cringed in sympathy. Peter would’ve probably rejected an overture from anyone at that point, but his obvious distress made it clear he recognized the Egon...and remembered what he’d said only the day before.

            Winston squeezed Ray’s shoulder before he let go and stepped toward the door. “I’ll go call for help.”

            “No!” Ray’s desperate response drew him up short and both he and Egon stared at the engineer.

            “Ray, Pete’s sick, he needs help,” Winston said gently.

            “Egon says he has the flu--Peter doesn’t need to go to the hospital for that. Besides,” Ray rushed on, nearly as white as Egon, “he doesn’t trust anybody right now. We have to take him home and _we_ have to be the ones to take care of him.” He turned to the blond. “Egon, we _have_ to. If we take him to the hospital now, Peter’s just going to think we’ve abandoned him again.”

            Egon was watching him silently, obviously thinking. “Perhaps if we could ask Winston’s brother to come out and take a look at him...,” he murmured.

            Winston was shaking his head. “Guys, I don’t know about this. Pete’s out of his head, and we can’t be sure it’s just the flu. What if he gets sicker when we take him home?”

            “Charlie could tell us if he needs to go to the hospital, couldn’t he?” Ray had latched onto that idea with excitement, a little color rushing back into his face. “And Peter hasn’t been taking care of himself at all,” he added more quietly. “I bet he hasn’t even been strong enough to even get out of bed for a while. He just needs somebody to take care of him. We’ve done stuff like that for each other before.”

            Winston knew Ray was a lost cause and sought out Egon’s gaze instead. The physicist was rational enough to make the right decision.

            Egon met his eyes for a moment, then looked at Peter. With another glance at Winston, he laid his hand on the nearest blanket-clad shoulder. The shoulder immediately curled away from his touch as Peter fretfully murmured something, no longer aware enough for anything but the self-protection his subconscious demanded. Egon drew away and looked back at Winston, pain shining deep in his eyes. “If we don’t take him home, Winston, he might not recover.” Peter’s apathy was a concern, but they both knew Egon didn’t just mean physically.

            Winston found himself only able to nod his agreement.

 

            One of the things Peter remembered learning in addictive psychology was that the physical effects of withdrawal were often much worse in uncaring, impersonal environments. Experience had borne that out; illnesses of his youth were mingled with vague memories of his mother’s ministrations, and the comfort always seemed to take away the worst of the suffering. Then he’d met Egon and Ray, and then Winston, and they’d nursed him through more than one bout of illness or injury with nearly as much concern and gentleness as he remembered from his mother. That tenderness made those memories almost painless.

            And left him feeling all the more destitute and hurting now. He knew he was sick, really sick, and his mind wasn’t working properly, but it seemed to keep coming back to the question of what he could’ve done to cause his friends to turn on him so. In his debilitated state, it was too easy to succumb to the idea that they’d never really ever loved him, but he refused to believe that. Maybe his illness had weakened his defenses and made him accept their censure with less argument or suspicion. But there had been too much proof of their feelings for him in the past, in a hundred little things every single day, and for too many years, for him to believe now that it’d been all an act.

            Another bout of shivering made his teeth chatter and he groaned as he burrowed more deeply under the thin blanket. But if they had loved him once, what had changed? Even with his heart torn into pieces and oozing pain, he still couldn’t find it in himself to hate his friends. To do so would’ve been to betray the love he’d had for them, and he wasn’t about to do that. It was the one thing he was still certain was real.

            Could it have been his father? Peter had long gotten used to picking up the pieces after Charlie Venkman, and had fully expected Egon and Ray to walk away in disgust when they’d first met the conman. But they hadn’t. They’d said then that it was Peter himself who mattered, not who he was related to, and the warmth that had filled him at those words never left him again. Until now. Now that warm spot seemed permanently cold, those who could have eased the chill gone for good.

            The shaking was so bad, it hurt, jarring his aching head and body over and over. Dear God, would he ever be warm again? And he was almost unbearably thirsty, but it was just too painful and tiring to move, and the room careened when he tried to lift his head. It felt like every bit of his energy was used up by the tremors. He couldn’t remember feeling this husked out before, both in body and spirit. And then thinking became too much of an effort too, and it drifted away in the sea of misery.

            There were sounds around him that he couldn’t place and felt too drained to try. They buzzed on in the background, and then part of the little warmth he’d managed to collect around himself was gone. He fumbled a hand out to find it and pull it back.

            A warm firmness closed around his hand, and suddenly the noise was close to his ear, only, it wasn’t noise anymore but a deep, resonant voice he knew right away. He froze. That voice meant anger and pain. As much as he longed for human touch and for the warmth and gentleness of that hand, he didn’t trust it. He jerked away. “No. Leave me ‘lone.”

            The hand disappeared, and something mourned in him at its loss. Then it was back, cool on his forehead. Even though he was too cold to stop shivering, it felt so good, all he wanted to do was lean into it. Vague snatches of memories, of other, similar times nagged at him, but he rejected it all. The pain that went with that presence was nearly unbearable and he had no strength left to deal with it. “No,” he repeated fuzzily. “Don’t. Not ‘gain.” He couldn’t bear it again.

            And the sounds faded into the background where he let them stay. Some part deep inside wanted to listen to those voices, trusted in them, but the overwhelming instinct was to stay away. He was so utterly unguarded against simple words now, and his tattered heart couldn’t bear any more attacks. Peter pushed himself away and let himself sink instead back into the cold heat. Dimly, he was aware of something being pressed against his mouth and liquid going down and easing the worst of his thirst, and then he felt like he was moving, lightheaded. Warmth was wrapped around him, taking the edge off the chill and letting him finally relax. And just before he lost awareness altogether, it dawned on him that for the first time, despite everything, despite even his own intentions, he felt _safe._

 

            The trip home was a sober, silent one. With tacit agreement, Ray and Winston had gotten Peter out to the car between them while Egon checked the room for his belongings and, finding none, went to settle the bill with Kerlins. He’d rejoined the others at the car, where they finally ended up laying Peter in the back, bundled up in blankets with his head resting in Ray’s lap. At Winston’s urging, Egon had also squeezed in at Peter’s feet, and Zeddemore drove. Peter finally seemed completely out, his strained breathing and occasional coughs the only sounds in the car. Not that it would’ve mattered. When Winston quietly called his brother on the car phone and asked him to meet the four of them at the firehall, Egon and Ray seemed completely oblivious.

            Janine’s reaction when they pulled into the firehall didn’t help, either.

            “Oh, Dr.V! He looks awful!” she jumped forward as Winston and Egon struggled to get the invalid out of the car with a minimum of jostling. Her eyes narrowed as a fit of coughing shook the limp figure. “Shouldn’t he be in a hospital?” she asked uncertainly.

            “We think it’s only the flu, Janine,” Ray reassured her, helping tuck the blankets around Peter. “He’ll be all right.”

            He sounded so determinedly optimistic that Janine immediately turned to Egon for verification, but the look he gave her shut her up. So, perhaps it hadn’t been the best idea, but it was the sole one they could consider. The other guys looked almost as bad as Peter; she could only imagine what shape he’d been in when they’d found him.

            Janine sighed. Well, nursing Peter would be just what the doctor ordered for all four of them, she was sure of it. She tried not to hover as they moved Peter upstairs and settled him into his bed, transplanted into the lab for easier access. And Charlie, thankfully, showed up right after.

            Dr. Charles deGaulle Zeddemore was actually a year younger than his brother, but he exuded the same calm and wisdom Winston did, with a cheerful enthusiasm that could rival Ray and a level of expertise even Egon admired. Half extended family, half family doctor, he’d become their unofficial outpatient physician, probably the one New York doctor who made housecalls. He came as soon as he could when they called, but this time none of them were ever as grateful to see him arrive quickly. Charlie was soon put to work examining the patient, Ray willingly assisting and Egon answering every question in quiet monotone.

            “It’s flu, all right,” Charlie finally straightened up, meeting all four anxious gazes. “Looks like one of the nastier strains, but I don’t see any need for takin’ him to the hospital, not if you can look after him. We’ll start him on antibiotics right away and the fever shouldn’t last more’n another 2-3 days. You know the drill: liquids, keep him warm, cool him off if the fever gets too high. If the cough gets a lot worse, I want to hear about it, and same with the fever. But you can expect him to be pretty much out of it for a couple of days.”

            “Charlie...” Winston hesitated. “What if Pete’s not trying to fight it. Will he still be able to beat it?”

            Charlie looked in surprise at his brother. “Pete? I can’t imagine him _not_ fighting something. What gave you all that idea?”

            Egon answered that. “There was a...misunderstanding before he became sick. We’re afraid it’s having a detrimental effect on him emotionally.”

            The doctor frowned. “Well, I’m afraid there’s not a whole lot medicine can do if the patient gives up and doesn’t _want_ to get better. But for what its worth, I’ve seen people pull through against all odds because their loved ones fought for ‘em and wouldn’t let ‘em go. My guess is someone’s going to be with him all the time, right?” A round of nods. “Well, that’s the best cure I can think of. Talk to him, hold on to him, show him you’re worried about him. Do enough of that and I think it’ll get through even Pete’s thick skull,” he grinned. Winston did, too, and even Ray cheered a little. Egon didn’t seem to hear, his gaze focused on Peter.

            Last minute instructions were shared, and Charlie dug out a packet of pills and wrote out a prescription for more. After thanks and good-byes, Winston and Janine went down to see him out.

            Ray sank onto the edge of the bed and gently arranged the covers once more. “He’s going to get better and then he’ll have to see we didn’t mean those things we said, don’t you think?” he looked up at Egon, his face clouded with worry.

            “Of course, Ray,” Egon reassured him automatically. But he didn’t sound very convinced. The engineer looked up at him in surprise.

            “He will, Egon,” he said forcefully, automatically switching roles to comforter. “I know we hurt him pretty badly,” he added, more subdued, studying Peter’s face anxiously. “But he has to know deep down that we don’t really feel that way. And now we have a chance to prove it to him. I think he could really use that kind of proof right now,” he said sadly.

            Egon blinked, looking up at him in surprise. All three of the older Ghostbusters looked out for Ray like for a younger brother, and sometimes it was easy to forget that he had a solid strength of his own that had seen him through a tougher past than any of the rest of them had faced, even Peter. His quiet determination now was the first thing to get past Egon’s worry since they had realized what had happened, and he berated himself mentally for forgetting the worries of his other friends. Egon found a genuine smile somewhere for the younger man, warming to see Ray light up in response.

            “Peter has always enjoyed being waited on,” Egon said wryly. He picked up the lax, hot hand next to him and added more softly, “You’re right, Raymond. I promise you, we’ll do whatever it takes to convince him that he belongs here.” And this time he believed it himself.

 

            The night wasn’t one of their longest ones, but it was among the worst. They took turns being with the increasingly restless Peter, falling into a routine of sheetchanging and alternating cold compresses and ice water rubdowns with piling on blankets to keep the chills away. Peter wasn’t awake, not really, but he tossed in bed, mumbling and sometimes weakly fighting them in his delirium. To Egon’s clinical eye, he seemed even more flushed than he had in the hotel, and his open eyes were unseeing and bright with fever light.

            The physicist felt Peter’s every flinch of pain in the bottom of his stomach, and Winston’s calm demeanor didn’t hide the older Ghostbuster’s concern, either. But it was Ray whose face showed every bit of misery they all felt. Between his guilt and his empathy for Peter, the engineer was badly distressed, and the blond found himself worrying about two friends.  

            Lying in bed at midnight, he listened to Winston get up softly to relieve Ray.   A moment later, Winston’s voice came faintly from across the hall, inquiring about Peter, followed by Ray’s shaky response.

            “He’s been like this a couple of times already, Winston. He keeps calling for us, but he doesn’t know we’re here...”

            Egon shut his eyes tightly, resisting the urge to get out of bed as he heard Winston soothe, “Ray, I think something in him does know. Pete’s responding to _you_ talking, not just to a voice. Maybe something in him’s trying to protect him by rejecting us, but what’s between the four of us is stronger than that. Give him time. He’s pretty sick now, but he’ll get better soon, and then he’ll understand, you’ll see. He loves us too much not to.”

            There was silence, but Egon could imagine Ray relaxing a little bit, just as he felt himself doing. Of course Winston was right; Peter did love them too much not to understand once he was feeling better and knew what had happened. Perhaps it wouldn’t be easy, but it would happen. Egon sighed. It was hard to imagine sometimes what they would do without Winston’s clear-sighted advice, often as important to the team’s emotional balance as Peter’s psychological instincts.            

            “Why don’t you get some sleep now, Ray,” Winston went on gently. “It’s my turn, anyway, and Pete’s gonna need you tomorrow.”

            The argument was an effective one; Ray didn’t protest, merely sighed. “Okay. Will you call me--”

            “You know it.”

            Then there were footsteps, and their youngest partner tiredly plodded into the room and to his bed, not even bothering to change as he curled up under the covers. Egon could hear his soft snore less than a minute later.

            Egon continued to lie awake thinking for a long time before he sighed and rolled over to try to find some sleep. It would be his shift before long.

            It took him a while to realize he was dreaming. Everything looked the same in the firehall, all four of them gathered in the kitchen around the table having breakfast. But something was wrong...after a moment he realized that Peter wasn’t eating but sitting and watching the three of them.

            “Peter,” he blinked at his friend, “is everything all right?”

            Venkman’s face began to pale and thin, his green eyes holding the sickly glow of fever. But the despondency in his expression was what really shook Egon. “No,” he answered the physicist’s question hoarsely, near tears. “I’m leaving. I can’t stay here anymore.”

            If Ray and Winston noticed anything unusual, they gave no sign, continuing calmly to eat. Egon’s insides twisted. “You can’t,” he said urgently. “We need you here, Peter. You’re important to us.”

            The brown head shook mournfully. “It’s too late. You wanted me to go and I’m going.” He stood to leave, unsteady on his feet.

            Egon jumped up after him. “Wait, Peter. We don’t want you to leave. You’re a part of us--we love you,” he said desperately.

            Peter’s face suddenly changed, becoming cold and harsh. “Love--yeah, right. You guys sure have a funny way of showing it. I was better off without you,” he growled.

            “Peter!” Egon tried to go after him, to physically restrain his friend if necessary, but he was rooted to the spot. The other two continued to ignore them, oblivious.

            The psychologist began to fade then, growing more insubstantial as Egon watched. Terrified green eyes pinned his. “Egon, I don’t want to go--help me.” He was almost gone, only a shell left and those large green eyes. “Egon!” he screamed one last time, and then he disappeared altogether...

            Egon awoke with a start, gasping at the transition. Ray was still snoring softly across the room, and Winston’s voice was a low murmur from the lab, reading something quietly to Peter. No one was around to see him shudder at the lingering nightmare; nothing had changed. Including the empty spot where Peter’s bed had stood. Or Egon’s aching heart.

            He curled his long frame up into a ball in his bed, but sleep, for once, was slow to come and healed no wounds.

 

            Peter was in hell. The heat burned up everything inside him until simple breathing through his seared lungs was a fight unto itself. He was on fire, and he was alone, and hell couldn’t possibly be worse than that.

            Touches of coolness sometimes broke the heat unexpectedly, and he savored it when it did. It didn’t put the fire out, but it made it bearable, as did the liquid that was poured down his throat. His head, where the hot pain was so bad it made him want to scream, was also bathed in relief over and over. It was unbelievable solace. “. . . Egon?” he murmured hopefully. His friends were somewhere, but all his looking and calling hadn’t discovered them and he was frantic to find them. Something was terribly wrong, he knew it, but they could make it right. They always had before. And then he wouldn’t be alone anymore

            Vaguely, he knew someone was out there, but they were holding him back, and he fought against the restraint. Sounds blurred around him illegibly, words, a whisper so gentle, it soothed his soul. He had no fight left in him, not by himself, but the voice promised relief, and he lay still and let it wash over him, keeping the demons and hell at bay.

            Peter felt its caress even as the darkness took everything else away.

           

            “Is there any change, Egon?” Winston’s voice came quietly from the dim room in front of the physicist as Egon slowly descended the stairs.

            Egon just shook his head, trying not to let his frustration show as he reached the bottom and headed into the living room to sink into the easy chair. The blinds were pulled against the morning sun and the room was too dark to see clearly in, but Winston knew him well. There were footsteps, then a strong pair of hands gripped his shoulders.

            “Pete’s gonna come out of it soon, I just know it,” he said confidently.

            Winston was usually the realist among them, but Egon knew that the words were more hopeful than practical. Illogically, he let himself believe the words, almost imagining Peter’s grinning, “Come on, Spengs, it feels good.”

            The truth, though, was that there was precious little good news. The night had finally broken into day, but while Venkman’s temperature hadn’t risen much more, he had sunk into a fitful, listless sleep that seemed to be draining instead of replenishing him. Ray was sitting with him again, worried about Peter’s exhaustion and lack of response, but Egon and Winston exchanged silent concern that it was more than that. Just as they had feared, Peter wasn’t fighting the illness with his usual stubbornness, and if they didn’t get through to him soon somehow, Egon couldn’t think about what might happen. Even a hospital couldn’t force someone to get better who’d had the will beaten out of him. Charlie Zeddemore had said as much when he’d been there that morning, his cheery face more grave than usual.

            Janine had also come by with food, a detail they’d somehow mostly forgotten about, and she’d seen it in Peter too. Egon had found himself unexpectedly warmed by the worry in her eyes and her deliberate effort to be light and to cheer him up. He’d even found himself responding to it a little, while he marveled that it was the role Peter usually played in their lives, using levity to help them deal with the hard times. Janine was more like Peter than he cared to admit to himself, something he’d have to give more thought to some other time. But she had been the only bright spot in the interminable vigil.

            With effort, Egon drew his attention back to Winston, still standing behind him. “His temperature doesn’t seem to be getting worse but he’s still not responding. I’ve been talking to him but...”

            The hands on his shoulders squeezed gently. “I know. Why don’t you go work on something in the lab downstairs for a while. You need to take a break, man. I’ll go be with Ray for a little bit.”

            He wanted to protest, feeling he should do more, but the idea sounded reassuring. With a weary nod, he let Winston pull him up and headed downstairs, hearing the other man climbing up to the third floor while Egon headed into his sanctuary. At least with the lab equipment, he didn’t have to keep his composure.

           

            “Ray,” Winston began thoughtfully as he mashed up a pill with the back of a spoon. “How powerful would a guy have to be to be able to cast a spell like the one we were under?”

            The question drew Ray’s attention from the cloth he was wringing out. He frowned for a moment in confusion, then, as the question sank in, in thought. “Well, it’s not really a question so much of power as of knowledge. He’d have to know what he was looking for, what book to find it in, have access to the book, and then have some experience at spellcasting to know how to direct the spell.” He placed the cloth gently over Peter’s eyes and forehead.

            Winston put down the spoon. “So what you’re saying is, the chances of some guy off the street who wanted to hurt us for whatever reason doing this are pretty slim.”

            “I’d think so,” Ray nodded. “Most people wouldn’t know how to get their hands on a book like that, and even if somebody was...mad at us and found the book by accident, they wouldn’t know which spell to use or how to direct it.”

            “Then what we’re looking for is somebody who knows about spells and has access to them, and who’s got a grudge against us, especially against Pete. Who fits all of those?”

            Ray thought for a minute. “Geoffrey Neeson,” he said slowly. “He’s never liked any of us, especially Pete.”

            “Yeah, except he’s stuck in the Netherworld since we caught A’nuit and tore up his ticket home. Who else?” Then, suddenly, Winston narrowed his eyes. “Wait, Ray, who’ve we dealt with recently who was into spellcasting and wasn’t too keen on us getting involved?”

            Ray’s eyes grew round. “Bassingame?”

            Winston nodded. “Uh-huh, I bet you he’s our man. He’d have the knowledge, the books, and the motive, especially since it was Pete’s old man who set him up.” He stood. “I think I’m going to go do some hunting. You okay here?”

            Ray soberly smiled at him. “We’ll be all right,” he said softly as he turned back toward the bed.

            Winston followed his gaze to the flushed face stirring on the pillow. “I’m going to find Bassingame, Pete,” he promised. “And when I do, he’s gonna be sorry he ever met us.” With that, Winston strode out of the room with purpose in his step for the first time in two days.

 

            Night was falling, outside the firehall and within. Peter was getting worse. Winston had gone out some time before, Egon wasn’t sure where, and had yet to return.   The blond had sent Ray to take a break, and later ventured away from Peter for a moment to find the engineer curled up on the living room sofa in exhausted sleep. None of them had had gotten much of that the night before. Egon carefully covered the younger man with a blanket, then slipped back upstairs to dig in and fight for Peter by himself.

            Venkman’s temperature was rising, his skin burning and dry, and his cough was growing worse, perhaps the first signs of the bronchitis he was prone to. When he opened his eyes, they were unnaturally bright and glazed, seeing only the nightmares his delirium dredged up. And he was also getting more agitated, Egon’s stomach twisted to see, despite hardly having the strength left to struggle The physicist didn’t recognize all the feverish ramblings, but there were some that were painfully clear: Peter’s desperation when he’d faced Nexa, his fear when Egon had been destabilized and thought dead, his calling for his father--a sign of his feelings of abandonment, Egon realized with a pain almost as strong as Peter’s. But most of all, relived again and again, the earlier betrayal and rejection of his friends.

            Egon couldn’t remember feeling so utterly useless before. Peter’s hoarse voice pleaded, hurting, so lonely, and nothing Egon said seemed to get through to his friend, nor did Peter seem aware of the desperate grasp the physicist had on his hand. His fever was peaking, Egon knew, but the cold baths didn’t seem to be doing much good. Peter needed his _friends_.

            Instinctively, Egon leaned forward and collected the delirious man to himself, wrapping his arms around Peter to keep him still and, hopefully, secure. He maneuvered them around until he sat with his back to the headboard, Peter curled up against him, his head pillowed on Egon’s chest near the blond’s heart. Then Egon tucked the blankets around the patient once more and replaced the wet compress on his forehead. “Easy, Peter,” he murmured, calling on memories of his own mother’s ministrations in his youth and, when he got older, Peter’s easy comfort. Egon reached up to stroke through the matted hair. “You will be fine, Dr. Venkman, I insist upon it. Fight it, Peter, please. I’ll help; I won’t let go.”

            He’d never been very emotive before he met Peter, sternly repressing the feelings he’d never known what to do with, but somehow around the brunet, it had become easy. And now, if Peter needed it, he didn’t even have to think about it. “Shh,” he soothed as Peter stirred again. “It’s all right, Peter. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” Was it wishful thinking or was Peter calmer? The mutterings had tapered off into a confused frown that made Egon smile.

            “You never did listen to me,” he chided gently. “It is over now, I promise you that. We’ve all been worried about you: Winston, Ray, even Janine. Fight this, Peter, and let us do the rest. We’ll take care of you.”

            Peter sighed heavily, turning towards Egon’s chest. “That’s it, Peter,” Egon whispered, cradling his armful. “Let me help you this time.”

            With Peter dozing in and out and resting as comfortably as possible against him, Egon finally let himself relax a little, careful not to loosen his grip. Peter’s fever still burned the physicist through the thin clothing, and the dry coughing rattled him in Egon’s arms, but he somehow no longer felt fragile and like he was drifting away, and some of Egon’s despair faded, replaced by something that made his throat tighten. It was hope.

 

            _Thump. Thump. Thump._

            It took a while for the noise to filter through the chaos of his mind, but when it did, it was mesmerizing. Not understanding it, he just lay and listened to it and felt it beating softly against his ear.

            _Thump. Thump._

            It was calming, and as his head cleared a little, he became aware of other things. It was easier to breathe now; somehow he was more comfortable and not as unquenchably hot inside. Nor was he shivering as badly.

            That was probably because of the warmth wrapped around him. He stirred, testing it, and it eased him closer, surrounding him with a wash of peace.

            It was somebody, with him, not letting him go. Someone who cared for him.

            His confused mind centered on the revelation. Betrayal still ached, but it had no power against such tenderness. He shifted again, anxious to be certain, and there was an answering stroke against his hair. “Shh,” that gentle voice again from his dreams whispered in his ear, and this time he was sure it was real. Rumbling words followed, just as familiar as that touch, and though he didn’t understand them, he listened to them wearily.   He would place them later, he just didn’t have the strength now.

            He floated on the tranquility of the other’s compassion. It gave him a focus, something to fight for, for such concern was worth coming back to. It gave him hope.

            But first, he was very, very tired, and the soothing darkness he’d mistrusted before seemed inviting now. With a sigh of contentment, Peter nestled closer to the warmth and let himself drift into deep sleep, knowing he wasn’t alone and he was loved.

 

            Winston looked at the paper with the hastily-scribbled address. It was the right place. Parking Ecto as inconspicuously as possible, he climbed out and headed for the left-most stretch of cubicles.

            It was the third one he came to, the number matching the one Bassingame’s building super had given him. He didn’t even ask how the old lady had known it, just tipped her and thanked God for the lead. After a fruitless search of the doctor’s abandoned and empty apartment, it was all he had left to go on.

            The lock was a thick one, but it was no deterrant. The lock-picking his dad had taught him had come in handy more times than he would have thought, Winston grinned to himself.

            The door slid up, and a moment later he was blinking at the dimness inside. As his eyes adjusted, he whistled low in appreciation. The furniture piled to one side was useless and he ignored it, but the crates of books against the other wall were promising. Flicking on the lightswitch by the door, he went over to the first one and crouched down to get a look at the contents, pulling out and examining the books one by one.

            A particularly old and worn volume appeared in the pile, one with no name on it but that Winston recognized nonetheless from the day before. That drew a smile from the eldest Ghostbuster. It was paydirt, the best thing he could have hoped for short of finding the weasel himself. Unbelievable how many bad guys were stupid enough to leave badly-hidden damning evidence behind them.

            Replacing the books in the crate, he hefted the box, making mental count of the others lined up next to it. Nodding to himself, he turned and headed back to Ecto with his find.

 

            The wetness got through even his sleep-fogged brain, and Egon looked up groggily. A moment later he recollected everything and guiltily looked at his patient, checking his condition.

            Peter was resting quietly, nearly comatose in deep sleep. His breathing seemed less harsh to Egon, though, and the coughing had died down too. But he was drenched in sweat, his hair drooping into his face and his clothes stuck to his skin and to Egon. The fever had broken. Egon felt himself grin for the first time in what seemed years. “Thank God,” he breathed.

            Slowly, he endeavored to slip out from underneath and make Peter more comfortable in bed without waking him up. He had half-succeeded, his numbed feet resting on the floor when Peter stirred slightly, his brow wrinkling at the disturbance. “‘gon?” His voice had no substance.

            “It’s all right, Peter, go back to sleep. Everything’s fine,” Egon said warmly.

            “Don’ feel good,” Peter sighed, pressing closer.

            “I know,” Egon said gently. “You need to rest. You’ll feel better when you wake up, I promise. I’ll stay with you.”

            He only got a partial nod in response, Peter having dozed off in the middle. With a slight smile, Egon slid the rest of the way out, soothing his friend back to sleep when he stirred, until Peter was comfortably settled.

            Egon fetched fresh water and washed away the remnants of the fever, brushing back the damp hair out of Peter’s face and noting with approval that his coloring was better, the unnatural blush gone. Somehow, he didn’t look as faded as before, just utterly wrung out. But the sleep was a healthful, healing one now. And for that, Egon was very, very grateful.

            He finished cleaning up, changing Peter into dry clothes, then sat back to watch him sleep. It was amazing that one person could mean so much to another. Ray and Peter had awakened him to possibilities outside of science and reason, to the joys of a balanced life, that was true. But he’d also learned from them how to let himself feel, to give all to a friend and receive everything back in return, and no matter how much success he would’ve met with in the scientific field, it would’ve been dry and unfulfilling without his chosen family to share it with. Peter’s irreverent faith had done most of that. Egon hadn’t known how precious another person's love was until he’d worked so hard and wanted so much to earn the wary freshman’s, and found a better part of himself in doing so. The wonders of science never gave him the contentment he had in knowing how much he was loved in return. And there was nothing he wouldn’t do to preserve that gift.

            “He’s looking a lot better.”

            Winston’s quiet voice from the doorway behind made him start, and he turned with surprise to meet rueful brown eyes.

            “Scared you, didn’t I. Sorry. Thought you heard me coming.”

            Egon joined him in the hallway and shook his head tiredly. “No, I was...thinking.” He indicated the room. “Peter’s fever broke a little while ago. He’s doing much better.”  
            Winston’s face mirrored his relief. “Thank God,” the other murmured. “I was beginning to think we’d have to sic Slimer on him to get him out of it.”

            “I believe Slimer felt the spell and it scared him off. He left rather suddenly right before I began to feel its effects, although I presume he’ll come back soon to check if its safe,” Egon said, not without humor.

            “Right,” Winston grimaced. “Probably after a few days of drowning his sorrows in the local garbage bins.”

            “No doubt.”

            Winston turned back to him and eyed him silently, eyebrows rising as he got a good look at the blond’s rumpled and damp state. “Speaking of messes...,” he trailed off with a hint of a smile.

            Egon glanced down at himself and felt himself color a little. “Peter was...restless--” he began, but Winston’s understanding smile and shake of the head made the excuse unnecessary. They both lapsed into easy silence, watching their resting friend.  

            Suddenly, Winston’s face broke out in a grin and he thumped Egon on the back. “He’s gonna be okay!” he laughed.

            It was contagious; Egon couldn’t help grinning back. If they looked silly, he couldn’t care less.

            “Is it Peter?” Ray’s worried voice came from the stairway as the auburn head appeared.

            “He’s doing much better, Raymond,” Egon said quickly, looking past Winston. “The fever’s broken and he’s sleeping naturally now.” He took great satisfaction in the words.

            The engineer’s face lit up, and he went past them into the room, stopping by the bed to study Peter. “Gosh, he is doing better,” he whispered, reaching down to gently feel Peter’s forehead. His face was glowing as he turned back to his other two friends. “He’s really going to be all right, isn’t he?” he said softly.

            “He really is, Ray.” Winston’s voice was heartfelt. The brightness of Ray’s eyes drew Egon automatically to him and he lay an arm along the younger man’s shoulders. It wasn’t over yet, but it was a good beginning.

           

            “So, you know where I was all morning?” Winston asked after taking a sip of his coffee.

            Egon finished fetching his own and joined his two friends at the kitchen table as Ray suddenly looked up.

            “Bassingame?”

            Winston nodded. “The one and only.”

            “What about him?” Egon frowned.

            “Ray and I got to thinking about who would know how to cast a spell like the one we broke yesterday, and who also wanted to get back at us for something. Guess who was at the top of the list?” Winston cocked an eyebrow at the physicist.

            “Bassingame,” Egon said with distaste. “Did you find something?”

            Winston put down his coffecup and studied his friends. “Only that his place is cleaned out and nobody seems to know where he is. The guy wasn’t too smart, though. I checked around and it seems he has a storage unit not too far from here. I went to take a look. Some of it was junk, but I did find some old books and stuff that I thought looked important. Guess he had to take off in a hurry and he figured he’d come back for his things when the heat dies down.” He glanced at Ray. “I found a book like the one you found the spell in.”

            “Really?” Ray said excitedly. “I didn’t even know there were two of them in existence. That’s great!” His face abruptly fell. “But that means he probably did it, and he got away with it.”  
            “Not exactly,” Winston smirked. “I went and had a talk with Detective Frump. Of course, there’s no law against casting a spell, but seems our Dr. Bassingame split without paying his fine for the Hob, probably because he’s also wanted on several other criminal charges. Frump didn’t think too highly of him, which wouldn’t mean much by itself, but it does guarantee that Frump’s gonna do his damnedest to catch the guy and put him away for a long, long time.”

            “Without his books and tools, its doubtful Bassingame would prove much of a threat in the future,” Egon said thoughtfully. “But we’ll have to bring back everything from the storage unit that could possibly fall into the wrong hands.”

            “That’s not all,” Winston went on. “I also tracked down the producer of Bassingame’s TV specials. When he heard about his star’s little disagreement with the law, suddenly the network’s deal with the good doctor didn’t seem like such hot property. I think Bassingame’s gonna have some trouble finding backers for his ideas after this.”

            That prompted smiles from both his companions. It wasn’t a lot, but it did make them feel better. Egon suddenly frowned at Winston. “How did you get inside the storage unit? Wasn’t it locked?”

            Winston grin was pure Cheshire-cat. “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies,” he said smoothly. Egon could only imagine, and Ray’s eyes widened as he obviously did too. “But I’m way ahead of you,” Winston went on. “I loaded up everything in Ecto except for some boxes of clothes and a few pieces of furniture. No chance of anything ending up somewhere it shouldn’t.”

            Egon smiled. “Indeed. That was excellent detective work, Winston. I think it will help Peter that we know who was responsible for this and can make sure that it doesn’t happen again and that he’ll pay for it.” There was a hard edge in his voice that he knew was unusual for him, but it didn’t matter. What had been done to them, and then to Peter, was worth no sympathy. Winston looked even colder, and even Ray didn’t seem to have any reservations. Perhaps, in time, after Peter was fine, they would be able to forgive the spellcaster for what he’d done, but even then Egon doubted it.

            “Speaking of Peter,” Ray got up, breaking the moody silence, “I don’t think we should leave him alone too long. I’m going to go up and sit with him.”

            Egon nodded his approval; he’d felt the pull to return himself. But it would do Ray good. He stood up as well. “A good idea. In the meantime, Winston and I could go through the things he brought home. You would know best what everything is, Ray, but we can at least begin to sort them.”

            Ray nodded and left, and Egon watched him go. The engineer looked better since Peter had begun to mend, but there was still a droop to his shoulders and a heaviness to his step that was unlike him. They all missed Peter’s lightening effect, but even more so, they missed Peter. And, Egon added silently, there was still the very large concern that Peter’s trust was badly and lastingly broken. Out of his mind with illness, he had responded to the presence of his friends--even his subconscious memory of rejection couldn’t overcome years of close friendship and trust--but once he began to wake up, it would be harder to forget the pain and suspicion. They weren’t out of the woods yet, not where it counted.

            With a sigh, he followed Winston down to the garage to bury his worry in work.

 

            Ray’s face was drawn in thought as he sat by the bed and held Peter’s hand. There was too much to think about, and most of it he couldn’t understand at all. Particularly how the three of them could have been used so against Peter. He sighed. Peter could usually explain things to him when he was being serious, which was whenever Ray needed him to be, but he was on his own this time.

            The fingers encased in his hand moved, flexing, and Ray’s attention turned back to Peter. The psychologist was usually a restless sleeper, spread out all over his bed, but he’d seemed to be sleeping the sleep of the dead since his fever had broken.

            He continued to stir now, though, and finally cracks of green appeared, frowning at the wall.

            “Peter?” Ray leaned forward hopefully.

            Peter’s eyes opened wider and they found Ray. Relief flashed through his face, then the walls abruptly came down. “No,” he croaked and squeezed his eyes shut, his whole face scrunching up in misery.

            No more so than Ray’s. “Peter,” he clutched the other desperately. “It’s all right, really. I know we...we said awful things to you, but it wasn’t us. Bassingame cast a spell on us to make us act that way, and Janine made us figure it out and undo it. It must have been awful for you, Peter, but we would never do that to you on purpose, honest. We were so worried about you.” The gush of explanation suddenly ended as he bit his lip.

            Peter was watching him with unaccustomed wariness. “...not you?” he repeated in confusion.

            Ray shook his head emphatically. “We’d never say that to you, Peter, not for real. We love you, we don’t want you to go.”

            Stantz was a bad actor; he always had been, and Peter knew it. The younger man’s face and voice radiated a sincerity that couldn’t be faked even by a good faker, and some of the defensiveness faded from Peter’s face. But he was too weak and tired to make sense of it and his eyes closed again on their own, the lines of his face not smoothing out completely as he sank back into sleep. Nor could Ray miss the deep hurt that burned in the green eyes before he succumbed to fatigue.

            “Oh, Peter,” Ray said mournfully. He refused to believe that they’d gotten Peter back only to lose his friendship. But the guilt and worry remained, and they were hard to reject. Sighing deeply, Ray sat back to continue his silent vigil.

 

            With half-sleep came awareness of the outside, and it wasn’t an outside he cared to go to. The memories weren’t clear, but Peter knew that consciousness brought with it pain and unutterable weariness. He felt empty and dizzy, light enough to float away if the blankets covering him didn’t weigh him down, but his heart was heavy and bruised.

            The noises of outside beckoned, however, and he finally gave in. It was harder than he thought; every movement was effort. And with the weakness came defenseless need. Peter hated need.

            He slowly became aware of someone’s hand curled around his own, and that desperate, vague longing responded to the touch. Such contact meant care and worry, and sick and exhausted as he was, he had no will to fight the comfort. Peter opened his eyes.

            A night-dimmed room swam into view--the lab? Their modified sickroom, he remembered, used when one of them was really ill. He had an indistinct memory of waking up to it before and to...Ray. Ray was with him, looking scared and upset. Peter had almost been touched by the concern, until memory presented him with the scene...days? before of his three best friends kicking him out, telling him they didn’t want him there anymore.... Peter closed his eyes again and tried to swallow the tears.

            “Peter?”

            He shivered at that. Egon’s voice, sounding as concerned as he got on occasion when a friend truly needed it. Peter had never needed it so badly in his life, but _friend_ was one title he had no claim to any longer.

            “Peter, I know you’re awake. Please look at me.” The voice was pleading now, and sounded worried sick, but still so gentle... Peter could remember such a gentle whisper somewhere in the nightmare of heat and pain not too long ago, but it hadn’t made sense until now. Why were they _doing_ this to him?

            He opened his eyes again, struggling to stay composed and letting the anger overwhelm the raw hurt, using it to strengthen his defenses against the rejection he knew would come next and that he wasn’t sure he could face. Turning to Egon, he muttered, “What?”

            The blue eyes held none of the coldness he remembered from before, only a deep compassion that almost broke him right there. “We said some unforgivable things to you earlier, and I can imagine how much they must have hurt. But it was not under our control. A spell was at work and made us say those things. I would give anything to take it back, but I can’t. All I can do now is tell you that we want you back very much; we never wanted you to leave. We need you--I need you, Peter.”

            Peter stared at him. His mind and a childhood’s worth of experience sang, _It’s a trap, it’s a trap!_ Ray had said something like this, too, but the psychologist hadn’t quite been able to believe him. How many times his father had said similar things and gone back on them just as easily. And believing it each time just made the disappointment more painful, until he’d stopped believing.

            Egon, as always, knew what he was thinking. “I understand how much I’m asking,” he said quietly. “But remember the past, Peter, the years of friendship. You have been my oldest and closest friend far too long for me to keep any secrets from you. Can you really believe that I, or Ray, who never seems to see anyone’s faults, or Winston, who has never been anything but honest, could have felt this way all along without your knowing it? You are too good a psychologist for that, Dr. Venkman.” Still such gentle, concerned words.

            Peter was trying not to listen and hung on every word, his eyes blurred until he couldn’t see Egon’s expression. It made sense and he wanted to believe it so very badly, but the pain was deep and a constant reminder. He shrank in bewilderment.

            “Do you think,” Egon went on, “after all we’ve been through together, that we ever could think of you that way, or want you to leave? Even when you are at your most difficult, Peter, we love you too much to have even considered that.” His deep voice wavered at the depth of his feelings.

            That tremor did it. Peter wasn’t sure he believed the words, logical and comforting though they were, nor did the distrust and hurt go away completely. But he was being offered a second chance to be whole again, and Peter hadn’t the will to not take it. He felt something in his chest collapse, his throat constrict, and the sobs started, harsh and choking. Ashamed at the humiliating weakness, he turned to bury his face in the pillow.

            Egon was having none of it. He leaned forward and got his arms around Peter, beginning to rock like one would a small child. That was how Peter felt, small and lost. But the love fairly flowed through him, beginning to heal gaping wounds in its wake.

            Mixed in with his confusion were bits of memories of being held like that and practically wrapped in love. It had to have been Egon, or one of his other friends, caring for him even when he wasn’t really aware of them. No one could fake love like that. And the knowledge that he was getting it all back made the sobs came even faster.

            He’d thought he was empty, but the tears just kept falling, and Egon kept holding him and rocking and murmuring odd bits of comfort even though Peter knew it couldn’t be very comfortable. He had no strength to help, lying boneless and tired beyond belief in the circle of his friend’s arms. And at the moment, Peter couldn’t think of a place he’d rather have been.

            The last of the tears left him utterly spent, slipping into sleep without the ability to stop himself. “Egon?” he slurred against a wet shoulder.

            “Yes?”

            “Don’ go.”

            “Never, Peter.” And that was the last thing he knew.

 

            The mending was slow, physically and spiritually, with the latter slowing the former. Each time Peter awoke, one of his friends was with him, pushing him to drink juice, helping him to the bathroom, or just sitting with him. Slimer had returned after being absent for most of his illness, and was actually controlling himself. Janine was even being nice to him for once, a quiet satisfaction in her eyes that warmed Peter even though he wasn’t sure he understood it. Ray fairly glowed with excitement at Peter’s recovery, and, once he could stay awake longer, the psychologist had more than one long talk with Winston. And Egon had, once again, become the bedrock he leaned on whenever he needed to.

            They’d explained to him about Bassingame, of whom he felt curiously ambivalent; after everything that had happened, getting revenge seemed the least of his worries. Winston had seemed certain that the spellcaster would be caught before long, and Peter was content to leave it at that.

            His father was a little harder to forgive. Despite his friend’s protests to the contrary, there had been some truth to their cursed accusations about his father, and the barbs had fastened themselves into one of Peter’s most sensitive spots. He’d forgive the older Venkman sooner or later for having helped put him in that position--he always did--but it would take a while.

            But the worst injury had been too deep to go away all at once, and long-inbred suspicions, once reawakened, weren’t so easy to put to rest again. Peter couldn’t help watching his friends carefully for hints of unreliability, weighing their words and actions even as he thrived on their concern. His head knew the truth and believed it, but his heart was harder to absolutely convince.

            Which was why he could feel himself tense as he sat reading in bed, in the bedroom once more, and watched the guys come in together, determination on their faces. His heart began to pound. Was this it after all?

            They surrounded his bed, Ray sitting down on his right while Egon stood at his other side and Winston leaned on the end. Peter put the book down and pasted on a grin.

            “Hey, you’re not here to roust me, guys, are you? I’m allowed to sleep late and lounge around in bed, remember? Charlie said I deserved to for at least another couple of days.” He wondered if his voice sounded as falsely bright to them as it did to himself.

            If it didn’t, none of them were laughing. “Peter,” Winston began seriously, “we’ve been talking. We know how rough this has been on you, and that you’re not really feeling steady about stuff. And, well, we decided that if you didn’t trust us and didn’t want to keep busting, we’d pass the business on.”

            That was definitely not what he’d been expecting. Peter felt his jaw drop. Before he could scrape together a coherent reply, Ray spoke up just as earnestly next to him.

            “It just wouldn’t be the same without you, Peter. Even Janine thinks so. We decided we’d rather stay together than be Ghostbusters, and if you don’t trust us to back you up, then we’ll do something else less dangerous. Maybe we could teach together again!” he added brightly, then his face fell. “Only, Winston couldn’t do that. Well, at least we could still share a place...”

            Give up the business and the only job he’d ever loved? The idea was shocking, but much more so the fact that all three of his friends were placing their futures in his hands, letting him decide just to put his mind at ease. It was almost unfathomable. He turned to silently gape at Egon.

            “Of course,” the physicist intoned seriously, “we’d be happiest if you stayed here with us. But if you are uncomfortable trusting us, then we shall follow you to wherever you do feel comfortable.” More quietly, he added, “We do not mean to lose you again, Peter.”

            He stared at them all with wide eyes, speechless. They all watched him in return with candid and equal steadiness. They meant it, he could see it in their eyes. The knowledge of that, of how important he was to them, filled him to the brim with warmth, dissolving the last of the uncertainties. The memories still hurt, sharply when he thought about them, but that was all they were, memories. Not even real ones at that, but an artificial influence caused by someone who had wanted to hurt them. He refused to give Bassingame the credit for the success.

            Peter swallowed. “I...don’t want to give up the business, guys,” he finally got out.

            “Are you sure, Peter?” Ray asked. “You don’t have to go out until you’re ready, and you have time to think about it. We really mean it, if you don’t want to--”

            “I know you mean it,” Peter cut in. “That’s just it. You guys would give it all up because of me?”

            “It’s just a business, Pete. We all love it, but friends are more important,” Winston said.

            Yeah, friends were more important. Even thinking they’d all rejected and betrayed him, Peter had never lost the sense of that or his love for them. And he had no doubts left that neither had they. He felt the satisfaction down to his toes.

            “We can’t close the business.” He curled up against the pillows with a mischievous grin. He saw them recognize it, Winston beginning to smile, Ray’s eyes sparkling with pleasure, and Egon looking quietly contented--and on guard. Peter’s grin widened. “Even if we passed it on, they’d never have anybody with my charisma or good looks--”  
            “--or ego,” Winston cut in dryly.

            “--or laziness,” Ray grinned.

            “--or volubility,” Egon put in with self-satisfaction.

            Peter opened his mouth to offer proper outraged protest.

            “Not to mention compassion,” Egon finished.

            “And trustworthiness.”

            “And loyalty.”

            He snapped it shut again, nonplussed. Much more and he would lose it again. Besides, nobody got the last word in on Peter Venkman. He reached up and put his hands behind his head, affecting a look of unbearable smugness and knowing his friends would see his true feelings in his eyes. “See?” he said simply.

            The next moment he found himself on the floor, in a tangle of covers he wasn’t sure he had the strength to dig his way out of. And he’d never felt better in his life.

The End


End file.
